Late Night

Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.

I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.

Screw poetry, it's you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.

- Margaret Atwood, Late Night

V.

There is the staircase,
there is the sun.
There is the kitchen,
the plate with toast and strawberry jam,
your subterfuge,
your ordinary mirage.

You stand red-handed.
You want to wash yourself in earth, in rocks and grass

What are you supposed to do
with all this loss?

- Margaret Atwood
(From Morning in the Burned House)

Time

But I began then to think of time as having a shape,
something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies,
one laid on top of another. 
You don't look back along time but down through it, like water. 
Sometimes this comes to the surface,
sometimes that,
sometimes nothing.

Nothing goes away. 

- Margaret Atwood